


On Sensitive Introspection

by Bananas45



Category: Freud (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Coercion, Drug Use, Drunk Sex, Freud has some issues, Hypnotism, Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Repression, Sort Of, Spit As Lube, in his practice and personality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24275620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bananas45/pseuds/Bananas45
Summary: Freud would be lying if he said Fleur was the first person he succeesfully hypnotised but the other was best forgotten by both parties.
Relationships: Sigmund Freud/Arthur Schnitzler
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	On Sensitive Introspection

**Author's Note:**

> I won't lie. This isn't deep. I watched Freud and I thought him and Arthur had great chemistry and needed much more time together and there weren't any fics I could find for them so I had to write this.
> 
> I'm sorry this is where my tiny brain ended up

Their discussions move in circles. As daylight streams through heavy drapes and bathes the room in a dust streamed grey. The morning seems to be the worst time to engage Arthur, Sigmund surmises. He’s less present right now than he is drunk and much more irritable but Freud had been unable to sleep recently, worrying too much and when Arthur had heard on the grape vine of Viennese physicians - a small one, Freud had to be honest- he’d come, only to be vented to by a probably much too high Sigmund.

“You know I much prefer talking to you drunk” Arthur presses a glass of water to his forehead, an easy smile on his lips even if it’s tinged with skepticism. 

Freud ignores how his own eye twitches in response. It wouldn’t be fair to get angry. Arthur, at least, is civil about listening to his rants;His practice ignored, some new idea that no-one was listening to, maladies that he’s both creating and curing. 

Arthur was equally as difficult, his attention like a butterfly, it seemed almost impossible to capture for an extended period of time. How he’d become a physician - one with so much respect, farless - was a _genuine_ mystery to Freud. 

“Why?” 

“Because the whole thing seems less _insane_ when I’m not sober” 

And there, another thing about Arthur, how he could turn from your silly best friend by night to so level-headed by day. The way he partitioned those parts of himself. It was enviable and ignited some clinical desire in him. Cross legged on Sigmund’s sofa, one hand resting in his curls as he purses his lips. 

“You’re much more agreeable drunk” Sigmund agrees, ignoring the ever present shake in his hands. Arthur blames the cocaine, but similarly can’t talk, given if he drank less he’d be less of a complete airhead. 

“Then we should spend less time drinking,” Arthur says. “Truly, I don’t want any part of-” 

He motions vaguely. “All this” 

“You believe in hypnotism?” Freud pushes, because at least ten minutes ago, Arthur had agreed in its existence. “You said so _sober-”_

“Okay -” He says, waving a hand to cut Sigmund off. “I believe in it as much as I believe in God. Would I send my _patients_ to church? No, I wouldn't-” 

“But if they believed that it would work and they found some kind of emotional release from it and their symptoms became manageable?” Sigmund realises they’re talking over one-another now. 

“That’s trickery, Freud. Not treatment” Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Why!? -Then so is religion-” Sigmund stumbles over his own ideas, looking at Arthur’s bemused face. “It’s so widespread, It could be, from the simplest maladies to- to the most untreatable patients. The only _true_ mystery in life is the human mind and the only way you can _treat_ a maladied one is without resistance” 

Arthur swallows whether in genuine defeat or just exhaustion Sigmund isn’t sure, green eyes flickering from Freud to the ground before he looks up. 

“Okay, then try it on me” 

Sigmund startles visibly, head cocked. He steps back like Arthur is suddenly something to be feared. 

“Truly?” 

Arthur laughs, airy and free. It makes Sigmund’s blood boil. 

“Well I have an appointment at four” He smiles. “So bring me up by then” 

Sigmund takes a breath and finds himself instantly drawn to the bottle of cocaine. Arthur follows his eyes. 

“Nervous?” 

Sigmund clears his throat. 

“I’ve never...well, I’ve never actually done it,” Sigmund murmurs. “Successfully” 

Arthur arches a brow and bites his lip, stifling a laugh. 

“Hm” He says. “Well, There has to be a first for everything and I promise, if it doesn’t work, I won’t belittle your work. I’m a tough egg to crack and _also_ entirely sound of mind” 

Sigmund sighs. It _won’t_ work. Arthur already thinks the whole thing is a joke. He’s much too keyed up, much too aware. 

“Try and relax,” Freud snaps.   
  


“Same to you, my friend” Arthur giggles before he rolls his shoulders and sits straight, taking a deep breath and sighing it out. 

Sigmund pulls a chair up beside him, close enough their knees almost brush. Arthur’s uncanny green eyes catch the dull light, making them almost effervescent, he throws a curl of hair out his eye and smiles. 

“So what will you do?” Arthur says, a little quieter, as though this is conspiritory in some way. 

“Tell me what you’re feeling, as best you can,” Freud mutters. “On the off chance this _does_ work-” 

“Freud” Arthur chides. “You’re not filling me with doctoral comfort here” 

“As two proffesionals” Sigmund continues, ignoring him. “I’d just like to know your experience, more than searching for anything concrete” 

He knows that’s a lazy cop out. Protecting his pride from Arthur’s inevitable scrutiny. Arthur nods, brows knit and gaze surprisingly serious. Somehow that makes this worse. 

“How do you feel generally?” He asks as he pulls out his pocket watch. 

“Oh fine” Arthur sighs. “Nothing to complain about. I’m the picture of health” 

Freud nods, clearing his throat. He drops the pocket watch at eye level. Arthur’s own land on it before flickering to Freuds, a quizzical smile playing his lips. 

“Focus on it,” Freud says. “Not me” 

Arthur bites his lip against a grin that seems to pull at his cheeks but he does as asked anyway. This feels strange, Freud notes, as he stares at Arthur’s face, following the swing of the watch. His eyes take a moment to truly follow the movement, as though they’re fighting against it. It’s strangely intimate with someone he knows so well. 

“God” Arthur murmurs, just the slightest hint of surprise in his voice. 

“You don’t have to speak,” Freud says. “Just let your eyes follow it-” 

“Your voice…” Arthur says, his tone soft if not a little embarrassed. “Makes my scalp tingle” 

“Arthur, Don’t speak” He tries again. Arthur’s eyes are still following the path of the pocket-watch, heavy lidded compared to moments before. 

“Is that your Father’s pocket watch?” He mumbles. “Or did he just buy it for you-” 

“We can stop if you won’t take it seriously” Freud snaps and Arthur nods, holding his hands up in surrender, eyes never leaving the watch. 

“Truly, it’s relaxing, I'll give you that” Arthur says before swallowing. “What are we doing again?” 

He clenches his jaw against the urge to slap him. 

“I’m focusing your attention” Freud murmurs, then louder. “Close your eyes if they feel heavy” 

When he looks back up to his surprise, Athur’s eyes are shut. A part of him wants to ask if he just did as an indulgence but there is an evenness to his breath and softness to his features that makes Freud inexplicably euphoric. 

“What next?” Arthur asks and the illusion is shattered. 

Freud sighs.

“How do you feel?” He asks instead, curling the watch back into his breast pocket. 

“Heavy, I'll give you that, like I’m close to sleep but I could shake it off-” 

“Don't,” Freud asks, tries not to make it sound like a desperate plea. 

“I wasn’t going to” Arthur murmurs. “But I don’t feel like I’m… susceptible. I’m sorry, Sigmund” 

“It’s not about that,” Sigmund says and he settles back, trying to articulate. “Try and imagine a river and the bank on one side is the part of you that is talking to me now, the part that is a Doctor and that knows your name-” 

“Right,” Arthur says, a soft laugh slipping out. 

“But the other side of that river there is a whole bank you aren’t even aware of. I’m just trying to build a bridge, one that you can only cross when you’re in this altered state-” 

“ _Stop_ it, you’ll make me laugh” Arthur says gently, eyes flickering in a threat of opening. 

They talk it through some more, Arthur’s protests against the assumed absurdity of it die down, Freud notices but when he asks Arthur just murmurs something about the tone of Sigmund’s voice being surprisingly relaxing. 

If Freud is honest, he’s unsure if this has worked. Trying to pry any truth out of Arthur is difficult. Whatever trance he’s fallen into is surface level at best, induced more by a hangover than by anything Freud has done, he surmises. He giggles whenever Freud asks any of the questions he truly wants answers to. 

“Why did you choose to pursue medicine?” 

“Why does anyone choose to do anything?” 

“You feared what your parents would say if you didn’t-” 

“We're not talking about this” Arthur says with a laugh, a little forced but with a finality Freud feels he has to respect, deciding not to push it. 

He refuses to call this a failure, even if he couldn’t show it as any kind of _proof_ without being laughed at. 

“We should stop,” He says, yawning softly and watching as Arthur’s nose twitches, eyes flickering behind his heavy lids. 

He’s unsure if it’s a moment of pure insanity or clinical genius but he leans forward, Hand on Arthur’s forehead. Ignoring the dazed gasp of surprise, he dips his head to Arthur’s ear. 

“Next time we’re alone you’ll ask to do this again” 

When he pulls back there is a moment of silence. Arthur’s jaw is a little open and he lets out a breathless laugh. 

“Can I...open my eyes yet?” He says as he clenches and unclenches his hands, although he’d lost the feeling. 

“Yes” Freud says, squeezing his eyes shut he drags his gaze away from Arthur’s face. 

When they meet Arthur’s are glistening with mirth. He stands, suddenly embarrassed by the whole situation, by thinking there was a chance this wasn’t just a joke for Arthur. 

“That was fun,” He says. “I’m not sure if it works. Maybe if I was clinically insane-” 

“Oh shut up” Freud mutters. 

“It was pleasant enough. I think I could’ve fallen asleep -” 

“That’s not _quite_ the point,” Freud says, pulling the chair away and dropping it back by his desk. Leaning on it he glances back. Arthur’s gaze softens gently to something unnervingly close to sympathy. 

“I’m giving you positive feedback, Sigmund” He stands and Freud is glad he hadn’t fled as far back as he wanted to because Arthur sways like he’s about to faint and Sigmund is only just close enough to grab his arm. 

Arthur blinks and rubs his forehead before giving Freud an easy smile. 

“I stood up too fast,” He smiles breezily. 

“Well” He drops his grip, clearing his throat. “Hurry. I kept you too long, I don’t want you to be late” Freud pulls his overcoat from the other side of the sofa and offers it. 

Arthur stares at him, one of his coy little smiles playing at his lips. 

“What?” 

“It’s three thirty,” Freud says, shoving the coat closer as Arthur refuses to take it. 

“It is?” There is a strange look behind Arthur’s eyes, behind the mirth, just a hint of concern, edging on fear. 

“Yes,” Freud says before he looks closer. “Are you alright?”   
  


Arthur looks down and then smiles. 

“Fine, I just...I-I didn’t think about the time” 

Freud nods and a silence falls over them, both equally deep in thought. 

“Well then” Arthur says, recovering with one of his wide eyed grins. “I’m sure I’ll see you at some debauched party-” 

“Leave, Arthur” He says and surprisingly he does. 

  
  


He doesn’t think much on what happened. He writes it down but he doesn’t mention Arthur. He decides the man doesn’t need to be professionally embroiled in Freud’s charlatan ways. He almost writes that the patient lost time but because he hadn’t pushed it, it doesn’t seem fair. The alarm in Arthur’s eyes had confirmed it enough for Sigmund. 

And he does, in fact, see him several times in the next few weeks. Lectures and parties, Arthur gives him a secret smile whenever his practice is brought up. 

“Oh I can assure you” He says drunkenly one evening, arm slung around Freud’s shoulders as some middle-class skeptic asks just what _exactly_ Freud is trying to achieve. “Sigmund knows _exactly_ what he’s doing” 

He’s no stranger to Arthur’s incredible social graces, he really can work a room. He’s just surprised at how forward he’s suddenly become about Freud’s work. 

It’s one night, watching him as he talks to a group about something or another, that he realises how lucky he is to have Arthur as a friend. He’s truly handsome and incredibly intelligent and for a moment he has to question exactly _what_ Arthur sees in him. 

“You need to stop me,” Arthur says as they walk home together. Sigmund wired on coke and Arthur dozy from alcohol. “I’m unhinged, I don’t know my own limits-” He hiccups. 

“Evidently” Freud mutters. 

“I have a lecture tomorrow” He whines. “Why did you think to bring me out, Sigmund?”   
  


“It was _your_ idea!” Sigmund barks, sighing despairingly as Arthur leans against a brick wall, head thrown back, a line of sweat trailing the column of his throat and disappearing into the high collar of his starched shirt. He looks away, horrified he’d noticed to begin with. 

Arthur’s green eyes seem to shine with whatever just popped into his head, so bright they could illuminate the street. Sigmund feels his stomach sink. 

“Could I stay with you?” He asks and pouts at the instant shake of Sigmund’s head. “Pretty please?”   
  


Sigmund breathes out. 

“Don’t say no- I know you’re going to. Please, I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll be silent. You won’t even know I’m there” 

“I will though, because you’ll be there” 

Arthur gives him a tired look, lip curled a little and eyebrow raised as if to say ‘really?’ 

“Hypnotise yourself into forgetting it then” Arthur grins and then quickly drops it as Freud turns on his heel and walks away. “I'm joking- Sigmund wait-” 

He catches his wrist, tugging softly. 

Sigmund looks him over. The flush on his cheeks, the brightness to his eyes, his high cheekbones.

Something about it burns Freud to the core. Which should be reason enough not to go through with this. 

“Fine” 

  
  


Arthur collapses onto the same sofa he was on a few weeks prior, head lolling back, hair splayed across his face, one foot thrown over the other arm opposite to the one he leans on as Freud lights a few candles, aware Arthur will most definitely not want to go to sleep yet. 

“At least take your shoes off” Sigmund mutters and with a mumbled apology Arthur does as he’s asked, other hand aimlessly opening his tailcoats before resting on his waistcoat, giving up with a sigh.

Sigmund watches him, entranced with how effortless he is. He craves that sort of charm and in his darkest moments, wonders if it’s the only thing that separates the two of them. 

“Mm” Arthur says, eyes closed as Freud hangs his coat up for him, taking off his own. 

A moment passes as Freud fetches himself another glass of wine, wondering if Arthur has simply passed out before the man sits up. 

“We should do it again,” He says. 

Freud almost drops the glass he’s holding, he whirls to face him, stomach dropping and something akin to a cold sweat breaking out. 

“What?” He breathes. 

“Mm It was fun, I think,” Arthur says. “And, as you say, I’m more agreeable when I’m drunk-” 

“No, no wait” Freud drops beside him, looking over his features, on his knees like he’s about to propose or check him for a fever. “Are you joking? You’re just joking because of what I said last time-”   
  


“What did you say last time?” Arthur asks, brows knit for a moment before he lets out an amused little laugh. “I _want_ to do it again” 

Freud ignores how his head spins, grip tight beside Arthur. He swallows against the drill of his heart and his shaky breath. He clears his throat against the rising panic and excitement. 

“You’re not funny,” He says, downing the wine. Arthur looks on with that wide eyed look, the one that means he’s analysing the whole situation more than he’ll ever let on. 

“Fortunately for my wit, this time I’m not trying to be” Arthur smiles but it’s tinged with something that makes Freud’s stomach turn. “If something _had_ happened last time, you’d have told me, wouldn’t you?” 

“Of course” He breathes, gripping the edge of his desk. The idea of saying what happened now seems like the worst course of actions and the idea of betraying Arthur’s trust makes his palms sweat less than tricking him. 

“Then I don’t see the issue” Arthur shrugs gracefully. 

They’re just friends, Freud decides, and by deciding not to tell him the whole truth he’s already made this little test unethical. Pushing it another step further is necessary at this point and Arthur - sober in _all_ ways - would surely agree. 

It’s much harder to do this drunk, as he moves the chair to sit opposite Arthur. In candle light the planes of his face are hard to ignore. He has the features and elegance of a cat, slender and pretty, an air of unapproachability but the charm to make you at ease regardless. A stray curl has made its way across his forehead and tickles the edge of his brow. Freud watches him wet his lips, eyes still bright and aware against the suggestion Freud planted in the depths of his mind. He slides the watch out his waistcoat pocket. 

“Your voice and the watch” Arthur says as Freud holds it up in a closed fist. “I’m a fast learner” 

His tongue rests easily on his top teeth as he watches on, unaware of the maelstrom in Sigmund’s head. 

It feels heavy in his palm, like some weapon, something that needs to be held in hands that know what they’re doing. For a moment he worries, for if he proposes that this method can do significant benefit to the mind then by the same logic it _must_ be able to do significant damage. But that’s drowned out by the much louder part that screams that it’s finally _worked._

“Let your eyes follow it” Freud tries and every word has weight, more weight than it ever has before, like he can almost see them dissipate into the air. Arthur’s blinks once with a soft nod before he lets his eyes focus. 

Arthur shakes his head, a strange smile twisting his lips. 

“Don’t fight it” His voice sounds so strange in the night air. Arthur’s head drifts forward at just the sound of it. “Just let your eyes close” 

Arthur’s uncharacteristically quiet as he does it, sighing out a breath that brushes against Freud’s face. 

“Focus on my voice. Nothing else. Just my voice” His breath feels shaky even if his voice is surprisingly even. He feels as though he’s almost in a trance himself, the alcohol and power trip mixing dangerously in his gut. “Allow yourself to want this” 

Arthur’s breath is a little shaky now, deep, like he’s somewhere between waking violently and a deep sleep. Freud’s unsure which scares him more. 

“Let the tension out your body. I’m going to count down from three and when I tell you to sleep” He taps Arthur’s forehead gently. “You’ll do it, do you understand?” 

Arthur gives the faintest nod. 

A part of him hopes that this won’t work, that Arthur will just blink his eyes open and laugh the whole thing off. 

“Three, Two, one” He taps again. “Sleep” 

But the effect of it is instantaneous. Arthur lets out a soft gasp, head falling back at the tap as his body goes limp. Freud curses, hand catching the small of Arthur’s back at the suddenness of it. He sighs shakily, running a hand through his hair and looking back at Arthur’s body like he’s just murdered him. He stands, pouring himself another wine and settling again as he breathes out. His hands shaking so violently the liquid almost spills out the side of the glass. 

“Okay…” He breathes, finishing the last vial of cocaine in his pocket. His hands bracket the sides of Arthur’s head gingerly. “Okay” 

Arthur is unnervingly still and quiet beside him, breath even, posture surprisingly straight. 

“I’m going to count down again when you awaken, You'll answer my questions -” Not that he had prepared, not that he’d expected for this to work at three am _drunk._ “Inhibitionless and honestly” 

This is wrong, he knows it’s wrong and he has _no_ idea what he’ll say come the morning but he also can’t bring himself to stop. 

“Three, two, one” He taps Arthur’s forehead again and bites back the elation when he twitches a little, eyes flickering but ultimately staying closed, his breath less catatonic. 

Silence spreads between them. Millions of questions could be asked, ones Freud could reference in practice, ones that could help Arthur, really, anything could be asked and yet all he manages to ask is the question he could ask _anytime._

“Why do you remain friends with me?” 

He thinks about it a lot. With Arthur’s social standing - regardless of his controversy - his writing, his practice, he doesn’t _need_ Sigmund at all and it’s not like Sigmund is grateful. Arthur takes him out, shows him off, spends hours talking with him and Freud is nothing but distant at best. 

“Because I like you” Arthur says, soft and demure in a way he usually never sounds. “I find you interesting. I like your presence” 

_Not after tonight you won’t_

Freud swallows. 

“I think you’re crazier than me” He smiles a little weakly. “And that’s…intoxicating” 

Phrasing a way to get him to elaborate feels impossible in his drug addled brain. The cocaine makes him jitterey with energy, with a desire he’s never experienced before. He’s always desired Arthur in some way. He was enviable but moreso, he was _gorgeous_ . Maybe sober he would have shunned the thought but now, able to stare openly, with Arthur unaware he can’t bring himself to. He knows, because he’s _studied_ it that he can’t force Arthur to do anything he doesn’t want to do, at least he thinks. The fact this is all unbidden makes it better. 

“Sometimes it feels like more,” Arthur says softly, like he can’t stop himself. “I fought against you last time, you scared me when you mentioned unlocking parts of me...I didn’t want you to find out…” 

His eyes flicker, hand twitching. 

“Don’t fight it,” Freud says, Hand back on Arthur’s forehead in some desperate attempt to keep him under. “Just my voice and the hand on your forehead, nothing else” 

Arthur’s breath evens just a little. They're so close, he can track the way Arthur’s eyes move behind the lids, can feel his breath, heightened and illicit. 

“All I’m doing is what you already want,” He says, tongue heavy and mouth suddenly dry. 

Whether he wants this or is testing the limits, even Freud isn’t sure anymore. 

“Kiss me” He breathes it out before he questions the consequence.

Arthur leans forward without a hint of hesitation. It should be more terrifying than it is. 

He should be ashamed, both of what he’s asking and the fact it’s _happening_ but the ethics of it die against the brush of Arthur’s tongue. He doesn’t kiss like a girl, there is sharpness, a dominance, that Freud fights with. Actively enjoying how salacious the drag of stubble feels, how sharp the angles of Arthur’s face are. How _wrong_ this is. 

He let’s Arthur straddle him, it makes Sigmund feel better about their current condition, allowing him to have some semblance of control. Arthur pants like whore, hands ripping past Freud’s clothes like he’s pained by their very existence. It’s unbearably attractive, how desperate he’s become and Freud _hopes_ if he were a little more sober he'd have the mind to end this whole thing. 

As it stands, he doesn’t. Arthur’s head dips to catch his lips again and he threads fingers into thick curls in response, groaning low at the feeling. When he pulls back Arthur’s eyes are open, glazed and unfocused, not fully present but not fully unaware. 

“Strip” Sigmund murmurs and for a moment Arthur does nothing, as though there is a lag between the words and their recognition. 

It’s awful how perfect he looks, they could cast him in marble and it wouldn’t capture the way he looked in that candle light to Freud. It’s then that the guilt kicks in, gasping and flushed, cock hard against Freud’s stomach, he realises he shouldn’t have done this but he can’t leave Arthur like this now. That would be cruel (and incredibly hard to explain) so now he feels it’s a duty to their friendship (what an excuse) to finish it. 

He takes Arthur’s cock, watching how he arches at the touch, something close to a keen. It makes Sigmund almost feral with desire. 

“God I wish I could fuck you...” He murmurs, hand speeding up, voice more a growl than anything. 

Arthur reacts so suddenly it’s startling, pulling at Sigmund’s trousers with a speed that feels possessed. Freeing his cock and staring down with glazed intention as Freud blushes and squirms under him. 

“Arthur-” 

If he means it he’s unsure, if he truly is going to ask him to stop, he honestly feels as though he lacks the will to stop him. He watches because it’s amazing, both clinically and visually, how little Arthur seems to care about anything except completing the task. 

It should be agony. 

Arthur takes a spit soaked palm and uses it slick Sigmund up. 

“Arthur...:” it’s weaker this time, less shock, no weight. It’s desperate and needy, a tone he’d never let himself use. 

He must want this, surely, if not the trance would break. Surely. _Surely._

With deft movements Arthur straddles him, sinking down on his cock with an ease that should unnerve Sigmund more - whether from the strength of his hypnosis or by the fact Arthur’s done this before. 

Head thrown back, lean skin glistening in the candle light. Body moving serpentine against Freud’s. It’s stomach’s churning at just how fucking good it, worse because the situation already had Sigmund light-headed. The fact they’re here now, his _best friend_ riding him like a common whore, makes his hands gravitate to Arthur’s hips. 

He doesn’t need encouragement but his skin is slick and hot to touch and Sigmund can’t get enough of it. When he bucks up, giving up on restraint, Arthur’s eyes fly open, a gasp caught in his throat, cheeks flush and jaw dropped. 

It should terrify him but it doesn’t, it spurs him on, driving up and deeper as Arthur clutches his shoulders, gasping and panting desperately into his ear. He feels slick and hot, like a woman but so much tighter, illicitly perfect and Freud can’t get enough of it.

“Sigmund” Arthur gasps, almost a sob. 

Their eyes meet and there is a terrifying clarity in Arthur’s eyes, the way they flicker over his face before settling on his lips. They come together on another breath of his name, all tongue and desire neither knew they had in them. 

Arthur moans against his lips as their hips meet, Sigmund’s thrusts slowly losing their rhythm, hand sliding to take Arthur’s cock. He breaks the kiss, wet and hot, and gasps hard, forehead to Sigmund’s as he chants incoherent praise. He finds he can’t look away from Arthur’s face, tracking every twitch off his brow, the way he squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip. 

The minutiae of the pleasure brings out Sigmund’s own and he finds himself chasing release inside Arthur, hand speeding up and hips bouncing against his thighs. 

“Cum for me” He whispers and Arthur does, with a strangled gasp of something close to shock before he collapses forwards, wracked with aftershocks and breathing wetly against Freud's neck. 

He follows fast after, holding Arthur’s hips down to take it all before he lets his eyes flutter shut, hand aimlessly drawing circles on Arthur’s trembling back. 

His ears are ringing, he notes and his heart is pounding, slow anxiety creeping into his bones as the weight of what they - he - has done pushes at the edges of his afterglow. 

Arthur, _god_ Arthur, what will he tell him. He stirs a little, as though thinking his name has summoned him. He sits up shakily on his elbows, dropping a kiss to the side of Sigmund’s mouth. 

“No-” he gasps weakly, for Arthur’s integrity now more than anything. The hand that’s not under Arthur’s shoulder shoots up, pressing against his forehead as he mumbles ‘sleep’. 

Arthur goes limp again and the fact he takes the order so easily makes Sigmund cover his mouth at what he’s just done. The illusion of consent, of desire in Arthur’s eyes now tainted. With shaky legs he stands, draping his coat over Arthur’s still frame and sweeping his hair out his face in an effort to make him look less debauched. 

He stands back, running his hands over his mouth. The room is so silent, as though even the apartment is horrified with what happened. The only two noises are Arthur’s even breath and the gentle, muted tick of his pocket watch, curled up in it’s gold chain like a sleeping snake. 

Freud picks it up gingerly like it might bite and clicks it open, glancing back at Arthur once more with the painful realisation that he can _never_ find out about this. 

The clock face reads four am. 

  
  


Which gives Freud around five hours to come up with an excuse good enough to get him out this mess. 


End file.
